The Collapsing Tunnel - Chapter 15

 

15 – Tesh – School Locked Down

“Don’t pull too tightly. Focus on your rhythm,” Master Shii‑Takan says in his thickly accented Durask. “You are spiders, effortlessly weaving. The shuttle is only a tool. You control the weaving.”

Tesh tries to focus. Doing this on the handloom instead of the mechanical one feels like more “busy‑work” to keep them occupied while the school is locked down.

Master Shii taps one of Tesh’s lines. “Why are you pulling so tightly? Is there a fly you are trying to capture?”

Tesh adjusts the tension. “I’m sorry, Master. I’ll do better.”

Master Shii looks around at the three boys. “Stop, all of you. Step away from the weaving and sit in a circle.”

He switches to Mishikwe. “You are distracted and anxious. Let us take a moment and do this properly.”

They aren’t entirely sure what he means, but they sit on the floor with him. Master Shii looks at Nibin first, then Garin, then Tesh.

“You all look worried. Nibin — if we were down along the River and there was a concern, what would you do?”

Nibin’s fingers twist the hem of his sleeve. “Master… we would take a boat and gather fish. Throw the net, wait, haul it in. While we sort the catch — those to keep, those to return — we talk about what’s wrong. We speak our sorrows aloud so Bruna can carry them away in the River.”

Master Shii nods. He turns to Garin. “And if you were back with your clan? How would you solve a problem?”

Garin sits straighter. “The Clan head would listen to the grievances, like in the Hall of Disputes. They’d give a ruling. If it felt unfair, we could ask for a new judgment with new information. Sometimes it changed. Sometimes it didn’t.”

Finally, Master Shii looks at Tesh and gives him a sad smile. “You are a child of the Market. How did you resolve problems?”

Tesh hesitates, glancing at the others. He’s never heard their traditions spoken aloud before. “During a meal break… we’d talk. Whoever gathered the most support was right. It wasn’t always fair, but everyone felt like they had a voice.”

Master Shii smiles. “Do you know where that tradition came from? Talking around a meal?”

They shake their heads.

“It is a Deep‑deep custom brought to the Between Lands. So let us treat this circle as a table”—he nods to Tesh—“a clan hall”—he nods to Garin—“and a fishing boat.” He nods to Nibin, completing the circle.

“Tell me your fears and concerns. Let us see what answers we can weave together.”

They complain about everything at once:

Not being allowed to go to the Market to hear real news.

The Priest in the Chapel holds “Purity classes” every morning.

Rumors of riots and closings.

Killings by unknown people.

“Silent Hammers”—whatever those are.

And worst of all, according to Garin, “no more Fry‑flats.”

Nibin adds that the kitchens are rationing flour.

Tesh mutters that even the Weaving River School hasn’t sent a trade cart.

Garin grumbles that mushroom bread “tastes like damp stone.”

Master Shii listens silently, hands folded in his lap, nodding now and then as each boy speaks. Sometimes he adds a quiet question. Sometimes he offers a small correction. Mostly, he lets them talk.

By the time they finish, all three boys feel wrung out.

Garin huffs. “Master… you didn’t give us any answers.” He uses his most formal Durask, but there’s an edge under it.  Nibin and Tesh both nod.

Master Shii exhales softly. “I did not give you answers because I do not truly have them.”

He looks at each boy in turn.

“We are prevented from going to the Market. We are to stay here for our safety. That includes the Masters.” He spreads his hands. “I have heard of ‘Silent Hammers,’ but I do not know what or who they are.”

Nibin’s ears twitch. Garin frowns. Tesh looks down.

“I, too, want news, not gossip,” Master Shii continues. “But like you, I have no good source at the moment.”

He gestures toward the Chapel. “The Priest of Durn is allowed to teach there. It is an old agreement dating back to the school’s founding. We cannot change that today.”

He shifts his weight, the faintest sigh escaping him.

“As for the rest — the shortages, the rationing — we are using what stores we have. We have not traded with the Weaving River School. Master Brenna is making choices she believes will keep us safe.”

Then in a tone that’s warm and tired he says, “I miss Fry‑flats too. Mushroom bread is good… but Fry‑flats crunch.”  He makes a chewing motion with his pointed teeth and smiles.

All three boys laugh — a small, grateful sound — and nod.

 

As they settle around the large Ember‑Rest table, Garin, Nibin, and Tesh shift their bowls to make room for Zhaawa and Kweze.

Kweze takes the plate of mushroom‑flats, sighs, and passes it along.

“It’s so frustrating to learn tunnel maintenance when we can’t even go into tunnels,” she mutters, softly but with a sharp edge.

Britta arrives with the platter of sliced meat and hands it to Garin.

“We keep missing you at Purity Class,” she says, trying to seem witty. “The Priest wants to know if you can tell pure wool from pure flax and pure silk. He thinks you’re spending too much time blending fibers.”

Thorek snorts. “Let him stay where he is. We need to know something is pure before we use it. They”—he flicks his chin toward Tesh and the goblin girls—“mix and weave anything together. Come sit back down.”

Zhaawa rises smoothly, carrying the pot of watery Stone‑Stew. “Metals aren’t the only ones who understand purity,” she says lightly. “In stone‑shaping, we know how to identify and remove what’s not needed.” She sets the pot in front of Thorek with a bright, pointed smile. “Some impurities are easy to spot.”

Then she returns to her seat, unbothered.

Across the table, the Masters watch and listen, saying nothing.

Mosek stretches, joints popping softly. “This is what I missed while traveling,” he says warmly. “Conversation. Hearing young people say what’s on their minds. The caverns are quiet and lonely.”

He smiles at Tesh. “Which is why sharing a meal is so important.”

Master Varu pats his friend’s shoulder. “You make a welcome addition to our table.”

Under the table, Thorek and Britta hold hands, knuckles white.

Beside them, Ashkwi‑Tin takes the stew bowl, scoops a modest portion, and passes it to Durnik, his partner in the forge.

He keeps his eyes down, but his ears are angled toward Zhaawa’s comment—listening, absorbing, saying nothing.

The old Cook approaches Master Brenna.

“Master, there is a visitor. He says he is known to the Masters. He appears to be a Protector, but without his uniform.”

She rises immediately. “Show him in.”

Ashke Wenii‑Gwenewin enters the dining hall, dust‑streaked and weary.

“I apologize, Master Iron-Root,” he says in his most formal Durask, “for arriving during Ember‑Rest. I have come from what had been the Grand Market. It is now officially closed and empty.”

His eyes sweep the room until they land on Mosek.  “And I wished to ensure the safety of the ‘Hairy Old Bear.’ The rumor is that he now teaches the young how to be a traveling merchant.”

Master Brenna extends a hand. “Protector Ashke, many here have seen you in the Grand Market. You are always welcome at our table. Sit, eat, and tell us the latest information. We are hungry for news but full of gossip.”

She makes space beside her. Mosek and Varu nod for him to sit where she directs.

An empty plate appears, then bowls, platters, and a cup of root‑tea.

As he eats, he confirms the things they had only whispered about:

The Hall of Disputes was sealed. He was there.

The Grand Market had a riot and was emptied. He witnessed it.

A merchant was hanged. He saw the aftermath.

Protectors and Border Scouts have been told to prepare to evacuate the Between Lands.

The hall goes still.

Rumors are one thing. But hearing it from a Protector of the People — someone who saw these things — is something else entirely.

The students sit frozen, bowls untouched.  And then they notice it.

Thorek, Britta, Helka, and Brokkim are smiling.  Small, satisfied smiles.

Durnik’s face pales. He knows this confirms everything the Priest has been preaching — and he is suddenly, painfully aware of Ashkwi‑Tin sitting beside him.

Ashkwi‑Tin keeps his eyes on his stew, ears angled back, shoulders tight.